Are You the Teacher of the Heart?
by coprime
Summary: Two stories in response to one challenge. First, Xavier from Wanda's point of view. Second, Evan writes bad poetry.
1. Terrible Thought

Title: Are You the Teacher of the Heart: Chapter 1: Terrible Thought   
  
Pairing: Xavier/Wanda   
  
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never have been, never will. Please don't sue.   
  
Summary: Charles Xavier from Wanda's point of view, set before "The HeX Factor."   
  
Warnings: It's not fluffy, but what do you expect from the insane character's point of view?   
  
Notes: This was originally written for a challenge on a list I'm on.   
  
Feedback: I'll take anything, seriously. If I don't know what was bad, it ain't ever gonna get better.   
  
~Terrible Thought~   
  
Are you the teacher of the heart? You try to be. Come in here, wheels oh-so-sterile, and try to teach. Once upon a time, it was control-- abandoned now for lovey-dovey lessons of the heart. You're always trying to fix me! You keep me locked up and chained up, afraid. So I snarl. And revel in your disapproving frown. Yeah, that's right-- be afraid even with my hands tied up. You're hopeless.   
  
Say nothing so that just when-- I think you're going to leave finally. Let me have what meager peace is possible inside my head. But no. You procure an eyeliner pencil from somewhere.   
  
Mind whammy first, always first. Of course. Docile little me.   
  
Then, grab my chin. Make me look at you. Gentle strokes-- eyeliner. Lipstick. Pretty, pretty me with my blunt scissor haircut. Ritual complete, you lean back and look at your masterpiece. I'm not finished yet, no. I know it too; window dressing makeup for when you can show me off. Make me grateful and pliant.   
  
...The mind whammy's starting to wear off. I smile-- think it's a smile-- with my eyes. You can't help but notice. Eyes drawn to my eyes, and it's you who traced them so thickly. Speak, I beg you. Use that reason, that compassion you're so famous for.   
  
You do, and the smile spreads to the corners of my mouth. Maybe you're making progress? Maybe, yes, no. I'm gone-- past redemption, don't you know. Father said so; he's never wrong.   
  
Bide my time, wait.   
  
More gentle strokes-- in my mind now. Soothe, soothe so I don't erupt. Calm before the storm. Push away my thoughts, let my mind go slack, and you probe deeper. I leap. My hands may be tied, but my feet aren't.   
  
You're on the ground now, out of the wheelchair, and how's it feel to be forced immobile?   
  
Big room, but the door's straight ahead. I hear a clack-- turn-- and see the lipstick tube roll on the floor. Swoop down, it's in my hand. Even crazies have little girl dreams: dress up as a pretty, pretty princess. Mistake that, dreams. Lets you have time, and time means--   
  
Subdued little me.   
  
Explain it to me as you get back in your chair. It's all for my own good, oh yes. Can't trust me, can't make progress. Progress means learning to do what you want me to do though. Talk to me now. Going over your perceptions of me my situation. Can I add something? Correct something?   
  
You know the story by now. Father, abandonment, imprisoned in an asylum. It's not that different from so many others. Crooning words reach my ears, look up and blink through tears. Gentle strokes across my cheeks. Tears gone, replaced by smudges. Can't spring for waterproof makeup, can you?   
  
Say you care, say you know it hurts, say you understand. As always-- same routine stuck on repeat. Maybe this time it'll stick. You'd like that; it'd be progress. So I resist.   
  
You're just like Father, you know. Love to be in control, love your minions. How many have you kicked out of your fancy team because they messed up? Won't let you get to me like that. Care, sympathy, empathy-- it's all an illusion anyway. Use the illusion, use me. Make me up so prettily. Pretty, false words fall on my ears-- deafened ears. Don't worry though.   
  
You continue the litany, more earnesty and more treachery, and I-- Scream. Loud, long, anguished, however you want to describe it. Drowns the words, down and away. Barely, barely a squeak as you roll away. Smile now through the scream. Session's over, shorter than normal. No progress beyond the makeup, teacher.   
  
I laugh now that you're gone. You do teach, teacher, but teacher doesn't teach what he thinks he teaches. Love, acceptance-- want me to take your lessons to heart. And I do. In my heart they go, twisty and turny till they're upside-down and inside-out. Use me and lose me, your lessons say-- echo over and over; that's the lesson of the day.   
  
~End~


	2. First Love

Title: Are You the Teacher of the Heart: Chapter 2: First Love   
  
Pairing: Evan/Pietro   
  
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never have been, never will. Please don't sue.   
  
Summary: Evan writes goff poetry. But he knows it's bad, so it's all right.   
  
Warnings: There's slash and one bad word. Pretty tame story, all in all.   
  
Notes: This was originally written for a challenge on a list I'm on.   
  
Feedback: I'll take anything, seriously. If I don't know what was bad, it ain't ever gonna get better.   
  
~First Love~   
  
// Are you the teacher of the heart?   
Are you the mentor of the soul?   
Are you the-- //   
  
No no, that was all wrong. Evan crumpled the sheet of loose leaf in his hand and tossed it in the direction of the trashcan. It missed, which his English teacher would probably claim was a perfect analogy for how his assignment was coming along. Feel the passion, write from the soul. But Evan wasn't in love, so how was he supposed to write love poetry?   
  
Dr. McCoy, he'd be able to write something fitting easily. Maybe the Doc had some great romance in his past or maybe not, but words came easily to him. And he had all those random quotes stored in his brain. Pushing his chair away from his desk, Evan decided to ask Dr. McCoy for advice. No way would the Doc write his poem for him, but... Evan kind of wanted to have it be his original poem anyways.   
  
Dr. McCoy was, surprise surprise, in his lab when Evan found him.   
  
Evan rapped once on the open door as he entered and said, "Hey, Doc?"   
  
Dr. McCoy turned and smiled at Evan. He didn't look surprised to see Evan, even though Evan avoided the lab as much as possible. "Yes?" he asked.   
  
"I've got this poem I need to write for English class, and I was wondering--"   
  
Dr. McCoy's eyes narrowed by the slightest fraction. "Now, Evan, we've talked about the importance of doing your own work...."   
  
"No, it's not like that, man. Everything I write's crap, and I was wondering how you manage to sound so... elegant all the time."   
  
Dr. McCoy relaxed. "A lifetime's worth of reading the classics-- the Bard especially-- and a good deal of practice."   
  
Evan felt his body go into a dejected slump at the news. "Aw, man. I'll never be able to write a decent love poem then."   
  
"Not so fast, my young lyricist. The content is infinitely more important than the style, and some of the best poems are written in plain language."   
  
Evan doubted that, but he didn't want to get a ton of poetry quoted at him. "Have any other advice?"   
  
"Aside from telling you to write what you know, on which I'm sure your teacher has already expounded, no. I'm sorry, but the muses speak differently to each person."   
  
"Thanks, Doc."   
  
Outside the lab, he almost ran into his Auntie O; she placed her hands on his shoulders to stop him before he did however.   
  
It only took one look at his face for her expression to become one of concern. "Why, Evan, whatever is the matter?"   
  
Evan sighed. "I'm supposed to write this love poem for class, and everyone's advice is to look inside for inspiration. Except I'm not in love right now, so I don't have any inspiration!"   
  
"Did your teacher specifically tell you the poem had to be about romantic love? Because your parents, at the least, would be very upset to find out you didn't love them."   
  
"Yes. And we have to use one of the poetry devices we learned about in class."   
  
"Hmm... well what about that girl you mooned over back in junior high? I very much doubt your teacher is requiring you to write about a present love interest."   
  
Evan blushed at the mention of the "girl," but his aunt was correct in her assessment. "Thanks, Auntie O. You've been a lot more help than Dr. McCoy."   
  
Evan heard his aunt laugh as he rushed off. He ended up back in his room with a fresh sheet of paper in front of him. The incident Auntie O had mentioned had been Evan's first crush, and he'd let his parents believe Pietro was a girl. It wasn't like he'd ever gotten anywhere anyway.   
  
So, time to choose a poetry device. Evan looked at his list of twenty vocabulary terms. Allegory, alliteration, anagram, dialect, enjambment, euphony, hyperbole, imagery, irony, jargon, metaphor, meter, paradox, pun, repetition, rhyme, rhythm, simile, sonnet, and stanza. He'd try... rhyme. And maybe hyperbole as well. He was young enough to still remember how all-encompassing every event in his life had been at that time.   
  
And yeah, he realized that a lot of events in his present life were all-encompassing as well, but at least now he had the excuse that he was fighting to save his skin on a regular basis. And wasn't acknowledgement the first step on the road to recovery or something like that?   
  
...Now he was just procrastinating. Evan glared at the loose leaf as if it were a personal insult that it was still blank. Carefully, Evan wrote the first line. Then scratched it out and wrote something else entirely. He continued in much the same manner for an hour, often pausing to look up something in the rhyming dictionary he'd swiped from the mansion's library. After much laboring, he'd come up with something he was proud of.   
  
// You subtly swish your hips   
And make subtle quips--   
Enough to drive a person to distraction   
With love's first attraction.   
Beautiful and aloof,   
And it's all a proof   
That you're beyond my reach.   
Isn't life a beach?   
So I sit and gaze   
And wonder and amaze,   
Sad and on my own   
And lovesick to the bone.   
Until you take the time   
To greet me like slime.   
Attraction dies quickly;   
Young love's prickly. //   
  
He'd be the first to admit that it wasn't a masterpiece, but Evan didn't think it was bad either. It had real rhymes for one; no near rhymes for his poem.   
  
Evan rewrote his poem, imaginatively titled "First Love," on a clean piece of paper to turn in. He wondered how Pietro would react if he walked into school the next day and thanked his nemesis. Probably try and insult him somehow. The thought amused Evan, and he walked out his room to join the rest of his teammates for dinner.   
  
~End~


End file.
